The Ramblin' Kid eBook

“I—­I—­didn’t—­”
she started to say, but the Ramblin’ Kid had
turned and, ignoring the cat, Skinny and herself,
was leaning on the fence with his back to her, looking
off across the valley, apparently lost in thought.
She did not finish the sentence.

The cat bucked its way to the fence. As it went
under the wire the can caught on a barb of the lower
strand. Jerking furiously, the animal freed itself
from the can, leaving splotches of hair and hide on
the ragged edges of tin. Still spitting and clawing,
with its tail standing out like an enormous yellow
plume, it dashed toward the barn, eager to put distance
between itself and the thing that had been torturing
it.

“Gosh a’mighty,” Skinny said, sweating
with the exertion and the excitement of trying to
catch the cat, “it’ll be noon before we
get started for that ride!”

“We’re going over to the river and maybe
out on the sand-hills a ways,” Skinny casually
remarked to the Ramblin’ Kid as Carolyn June
and he passed through the gate. “Oh, yes,”
he added, “Chuck said tell you he took your
rope—­there was a weak spot in his and he
didn’t get it fixed yesterday!”

The Ramblin’ Kid did not answer.

Skinny had been wrong about the Ramblin’ Kid
not caring what any one thought of him. He was
supersensitive of his roughness, his lack of education
and conscious crudeness, and the words of Carolyn June
were still in his mind. When Skinny and the girl
were going toward their horses the Ramblin’
Kid turned and entered the gate. Sing Pete was
still at the kitchen door.

The Ramblin’ Kid stepped up to him.

“You damned yellow heathen,” he said in
a level voice, “if you ever play that trick
on that cat again th’ Quarter Circle KT will
be shy a cook an’ your ghost’ll be headin’
pronto for China!”

Without waiting for a reply he went back to the gate
and watched Skinny and Carolyn June ride down the
lane. The deftness and skill with which the girl
handled the horse she rode forced a smile of admiration
to the lips of the Ramblin’ Kid. She sat
close in the saddle and a glance showed she was a
born master of horses. “She’s a wonder,”
he said to himself, “a teetotal wonder—­”
A shade of melancholy passed over his face. “An
ign’rant, savage, stupid brute!” he murmured
bitterly, “well, I reckon she was right—­Hell!”
he exclaimed aloud, “I wonder if Skinny’ll
remember about that upper crossin’ bein’
dang’rous with quicksand after the rain—­Guess
he did,” he finished as the two riders turned
to the right toward the lower and more distant river
ford and disappeared among the willows and cottonwood
trees that fringed the Cimarron.